


Notary

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Masturbation, One Shot, Season/Series 03, Slight Voyeurism, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: The tape recorder attached to the underbelly of the Governor's desk preserves Vera's every hitch of breath. She shouldn't be here, but oh, how she's coveted this seat, this title, and this devil of a woman.





	Notary

**Author's Note:**

> I remembered the tape recorder Joan planted in Bridget's office so naturally, my mind wandered towards thoughts of Joan and Vera. Enjoy!

Deputy Governor Vera Bennett grants herself access to a room considered taboo. Her utility belt sings as she swings the door shut. An eerie stillness manifests within Joan’s office. Vera finds comfort in the dead monitor and the erotic dark. She slips inside with the intent to please. After hours promise all things forbidden.

Wentworth’s insignia on the wall threatens to brand her crooked back. The waning security light reflects off the windowpane. Timid, wobbly legs move cautiously. Every step reeks of uncertainty. During this tentative phase, she gains an ounce of courage. Ever a meek and modest mouse, Vera scurries toward the great, big chair that she has coveted for years.

The ashen light of the room washes over her. Ventilated blinds paint lines across her plain, diminutive face. Shadows cloaked as prison bars entomb her like every other woman in this place.

Her reverent touch sweeps across the surface of the desk. She touches the keyboard. Strokes the chair. Grips the backrest, wishing for a pair of broad shoulders to squeeze. At the thought, Vera swallows a lump in her throat. She meanders around the desk to pull out the chair. Her body sinks into the leather as if the darkness threatens to swallow her whole.

It’s frigid beneath her. Vera had hoped for something warmer.

The Deputy spares an anxious glance over her shoulder – to the unlocked door that attests to her foolishness. She swears that she hears Joan’s calm, logical voice though it’s a phantom sound. The memory of such a dulcet tone stirs something within. 

A small, demure woman sits on the throne that she has lusted after, but she doesn’t fantasize about the crowns. It’s something else, _someone_ else. Slender fingers swipe along grooved the arm rests. Plastic feels like gravel, hard and textured.

Nails scrape her nylons eliciting such sweet friction. She starts at the caves and rakes them up towards her thigh. Her wrinkled, woolen shirt rises from the motion. Bit by bit, she unbuttons her blouse albeit with great reservation. A timid hand creeps past the plane of her collarbone, her breastbone, her décolletage, and ventures down to her plain, nude bra. Arching her back, she rolls her breasts in her hands. She drags her nails across them and leaves behind faint scratches in the wake of her passion.

She wonders how strong an authoritative grip would feel. A shaky sigh escapes her. How she wishes to be on the lap of the formidable Miss Ferguson rather than the cool leather that offers no comfort, only stiffness.

“Guv’na,” she whimpers aloud, quiet yet insistent.

The tone surprises even herself.

In a plane of existence somewhere between self-loathing and self-loving, she has an itch in desperate need of scratching. She imagines the Mac flickering to life, capturing her every moment, with a black hole stare devouring her every move. She’s no blushing Venus attempting to cover herself. This is all a part of her rewiring.

The nylons slither down to seize hold of her thin ankles. She rolls her tongue over her teeth. Her hesitant touch dares to slip beneath the waistband of her panties and the thick mass of curls. Taken aback by her arousal, Vera gasps. She rotates her hips and hums a pretty, warbled song.

“O-oh… Oh…”

Shallowly, her fingers caress her slit while spreading her wetness. She dwells on how Joan would fuck her. Hard and fast? Or torturously slow?

Heat consumes her body. She tingles, succumbing to the delicious ache that builds within. The remnants of her uniform fall off her sloped shoulders. Teeth scrape her mouth. She trembles as she sighs, wrapped up in this notion of self-care.

She wants, she wants, she _wants_.

With her hair in disarray, her head falls back. She entertains vanilla fantasies run rampant: a conjured image of the Governor exacting disciplinary measures. A gloved hand would secure her frail, thin wrists together with a thick, muscular thigh wedged in between, hitching higher, pushing into her aching core.

 _Fuck,_ she thinks.

Joan’s name doesn’t dare escape her; it’s too sacred to utter.

Vying for a better angle, Vera shifts her hips while she drapes a sinewy leg over the armchair. Far too focused on self-pleasure, she wets her lips that beg to be kissed. This is what it means to suffer from intoxication.

Strung out like a marionette on this stiff, swiveling chair. It squelches beneath her. Her breathing grows ragged. Her lithe body mimics the restless blinding lights which dance across her shallow curves and hard angles.

When she slips a finger inside, she cries out, nearly doubling over from the sensation. These moments of devotion are few and far in-between. Quick strokes beneath the sheets were all that she could once afford. Now, armed with newly found confidence under Joan’s mentorship, she aspires for more.

Languidly, she thrusts. She fucks herself to thoughts of being shown no mercy bent over the Governor’s immaculate desk. A second finger joins the first. Her hips rise and fall without abandon as she fancies Joan’s heated breath coasting along the shell of her ear.

“P-please, M-Miss Ferguson,” she manages to gasp out, her inner walls fluttering and clamping down on her eager fingers.

The thrill of detection - of being found - nearly throws her over the edge. Her thumb swipes over her clit, meandering in hasty circles.

Lashes flutter, pupils dilate. She throws her head back with a shameless moan, her cheeks cherry red from the exertion. Vera lets go, pining for so very much. Desire makes her reckless, longing makes her _eager_.

Suddenly, she collapses. Her pretty, pink mouth trembles. Each breath causes her to shudder.

After the fall, she cannot afford to bask in the glow. The little mouse scurries to put herself together again. Panties on, nylons up, skirt smoothed out, she readjusts her tightened bun. Pats down the baby hairs that frizz up by the day’s end.

She brings her fingers to her lips and licks away the taste. Vera struggles to stand up again but manages. From the depths of her pockets, she yanks out a handkerchief to wipe away any vestige left behind. Quietly, she slips outside in order to continue her rounds. The well-worn ache makes it all worthwhile.

All the while, she remains blissfully unaware of the tape recorder attached to the underbelly of the desk.

A solid hour passes until a tyrant returns to her throne room. Joan Ferguson slips into her office donning a knowing smirk. Her nostrils flare at the lingering scent of sex. Gloved fingers trail beneath the desk to reach for the recorder. Her thumb clicks ‘play’ though she’s all too familiar with the narrative.

It’s leverage.

It’s another lesson to be taught come the next debriefing.

_My, my._

The Governor tucks the evidence away like a hidden secret. Consider it burden of proof for Vera's desires are all-consuming.


End file.
